


bring it in

by jessalae



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Curtain Fic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Family Feels, Fluff and Smut, Mosaic Timeline (The Magicians: A Life in the Day), Multi, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:27:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27424945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae
Summary: Today, the day after Harvest finishes, is Quentin’s favorite day of the year.
Relationships: Arielle/Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 13
Kudos: 40
Collections: The Magicians Harvest Spectacular





	bring it in

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic I’ve chosen to imagine the Quentin/Eliot/Arielle relationship as a triad rather than a vee, which means that in this fic Eliot is both romantically and sexually interested in Arielle. If that’s not your jam, you’ll want to steer clear.
> 
> Huge thank-yous go out to shockvaluecola for cheer-reading and helping me come up with a name for this holiday; to akizasame for betaing despite being fully & understandably brain-fried from Everything Right Now; and to the queliotevents mods for running this event!

The leaves on the trees around their clearing are just starting to turn colors and each morning is dawning cooler than the last. Yesterday, they woke at dawn, like they had every day for more than two weeks, and joined the rest of the village in the last wheat field that was still yet to be harvested. They’d cut and tied sheaves alongside all of their neighbors and stacked them in Farmer Bunt’s barn, and then, with the sun dipping below the horizon, they’d stumbled wearily back to their house, exhausted but relieved that another year’s Harvest was finally through.

Today, the day after Harvest finishes, is Quentin’s favorite day of the year.

Arielle gets up first, sliding out of bed when the light coming through the shutters is still silvery and dim. Quentin lazily reaches out a hand to brush her shoulder as she goes, and she smiles back at him as she wraps herself in the thick woolen shawl she’s pulled out now that the weather’s cool again. This day, their own private family holiday, had been as much her idea as it had been his, six years ago when they’d cooked it up. Over the years they’ve grown it and changed it and now they have it down to a science, all of them playing to their strengths. Which means Arielle handles the cooking.

Quentin sighs to himself and rolls over, tucking himself in against the long, warm pillar of Eliot’s body, and closes his eyes happily. He presses his forehead against Eliot’s arm, smooth skin over strong muscle. 

It’s hard, physical work, Harvest. Quentin’s own arms and back are a little sore from day after day of swinging a scythe or lifting bales of hay or bending down to dig potatoes. Eliot escapes most of the physical consequences. Telekinesis is an extremely handy discipline to have, he never ends up half as sore as Quentin does.

The mental consequences, the emotional ones, are another story. Quentin kisses Eliot’s arm, thinking about the way the circles under his eyes have darkened by the day, these past few weeks. How he’s eaten his meals mindlessly, shoveling food into his mouth to fuel himself without bothering to enjoy it. How his jaw has been tight, his teeth grinding, and he’s barely laughed. Usually Eliot’s laugh is like a light source in their little cabin, glowing and warm. It’s been days since Quentin heard it.

But that’s what this holiday is for. To ease the tension out of Eliot’s jaw, bring back his joy and his warmth. Remind him that yes, harvest time in Fillory is a whole lot like harvest time in that viciously unfriendly world he grew up in, which he’s spent years separating himself from, and there’s no way to truly escape that pain — but he’s not there anymore. He’s not alone. And he has people who love him for exactly who he is.

Quentin dozes off again, and when he wakes a little while later the house already smells heavenly. Arielle’s got the fire nicely built up, its warmth chasing away the threat of frost. Their heavy iron skillet is set on the grate over the hottest part of it, sausages sizzling in one half and a couple of thick pancakes studded with blueberries in the remaining space. A few more pancakes are already stacked steaming on a plate on the table. The kettle’s boiling for tea.

Quentin slides out from under the blankets, watching fondly as Eliot rolls instinctively into the warm spot he’s left in the middle of the bed. He hugs Arielle from behind, kissing the side of her neck. 

“We need more butter from the cold store, and the honeycomb,” she tells him quietly, leaning back into his arms.

“I’ll get them,” he says. “In a minute. Mm.” He buries his nose in the crook of her shoulder, smelling soap and hay and woodsmoke. “You’re amazing, you know that?” He slides a hand from her waist over her stomach, resting it protectively over the gentle swell under her dress where she’s just beginning to show. It’s fucking _wild_ , honestly. They’re going to be a family of four in like five months. And still, she’s running circles around the both of them, taking care of all her usual Harvest tasks for the past two weeks without a single complaint.

“I do know that,” she says. He can hear the smile in her voice as she lays a hand over the top of his. “Come on, now. He’ll be waking up soon. I want everything to be ready.”

Quentin grumbles wordlessly into her shoulder but goes outside, to the little wooden cabinet they’ve enchanted with temperature control spells to make a makeshift refrigerator. There’s a roll of butter in there, wrapped in a square of waxed cloth, and a knife to cut off a slice. There’s the big earthenware jar of honey and honeycomb, sitting next to Eliot’s latest attempt at making yogurt (going much better than the last four) and a couple of plums, the last few of the summer’s bounty that haven’t been turned into preserves yet. Quentin grabs what Arielle sent him for and those last plums and heads back inside.

Quentin takes the carved wooden breakfast tray off its hook on the kitchen wall and starts loading it up: plates of sausage and pancakes, a little bowl for the butter, another for the honey. “You got the thing, right?” he asks Arielle softly as he’s slicing a plum.

“I did,” she says, equally soft. “Front left corner of the trunk, right at the bottom. Wrapped in white.”

Quentin’s just finished drizzling honey into three mugs of tea when he hears the telltale rustle of the straw mattress. “Perfect timing,” he tells Arielle, grinning broadly. 

“Go while the food’s hot,” she says, smiling back at him. “I’ll join in a moment.” She then resumes her staring contest with the final pancake, waiting for it to be ready to flip.

Quentin arrives at Eliot’s side of the bed just as Eliot is rolling his neck, blinking sleep away from his eyelashes. “Good morning, beautiful,” he says, beaming. “Happy Independence Day.”

Eliot somehow manages to laugh, yawn, and grimace all at the same time. “Remind me again why we haven’t found another name for this yet?”

Quentin lets him stretch and rearrange until he’s sitting up, then sets the breakfast tray over his lap. “Because it was cute when Arielle suggested it without knowing it was already a thing, and we were both too nice to tell her and now it’s been six years and inertia has set in. I think we’re sticking with it.” 

With his hands empty, it’s the easiest thing in the world to slide his thumb along Eliot’s stubbled jaw, lean in, and kiss him slowly. So he does. Morning breath and all. It’s perfect.

Eliot kisses back lazily, doesn’t try to get Quentin riled up or draw him in for more. Not yet — there will be time for that later. Today is Independence Day, and Eliot chooses what they do, so. There will be time for _lots_ of that later.

Arielle joins them after a moment, crawling up onto the bed and grabbing a slice of plum off the tray. Before she can pop it into her mouth, Eliot draws back from Quentin and turns to kiss her good morning as well. Quentin settles himself cross-legged at the foot of the bed with his plate, watching them both — Arielle’s fingers threaded through Eliot’s dark curls, Eliot’s broad hand cupping the back of her neck — a warmth rising in his chest that has nothing to do with the big gulp of tea he just swallowed.

Breakfast is delicious, as it always is when Arielle cooks. She’s got a talent for sweet things. They talk about nothing much as they eat, bits of village gossip, whether they should redo the draft prevention spells on the shutters or if they’ll last through the next full moon, how glad they all are that Arielle’s morning sickness seems to have finally passed for good. There isn’t a single mention of tiles, or patterns, or wheat, or vegetables. It’s the one day of the year those topics don’t come up, in this house.

Finally, as Quentin is finishing his last bite of sausage, Arielle brings the conversation around to the theme of the day. “Quentin’s going to run you a nice soothing bath, after breakfast,” she tells Eliot. “We can have some lunch down by the river if the weather’s nice, if you’d like. Other than that, as always, the day is yours.”

Quentin knows his cue when he hears it. He leans forward and waits until Eliot swallows his sip of tea before he kisses him softly. Eliot’s tongue barely slips into his mouth, and Quentin makes a small, pleased noise, tasting honey and blueberries. When he pulls away, Eliot leans to follow him for a moment, then reluctantly lets him stand and take his plate to the washbasin. 

“I’m nearly done knitting your hat,” Eliot tells Arielle as Quentin steps into the small second room they’ve built behind the kitchen. “I’d like to finish that today. And I’d like it if you’d sing to me.”

“Of course. Anything else?”

“That pretty much does it, I think,” Eliot says. “Oh. I almost forgot.” His voice drops low, so deep Quentin can barely hear it, but he knows what he’s going to say anyway. “I’d like to fuck you both until you can’t see straight.”

“Of course,” Arielle says again, her voice low and sultry as well.

Quentin can’t stop a big, goofy smile from spreading across his face, even though neither of them can see him as he gets things ready.

The bathroom is Eliot’s masterpiece, several years of physical and magical work poured into this tiny room to make keeping themselves clean into a pleasant experience rather than a complete pain in the ass. Quentin uses a simple tut to trigger the charms that will work the handle of the water pump, fill the tub to the perfect level. He drizzles in a bit of lavender oil as it fills, gets out the little jar of Eliot’s favorite soap and the blend of oils he uses as conditioner, puts a quick warming charm on their fluffiest towel and hangs it over the back of the chair.

When the tub is full, he heats the water with another warming charm, drawing energy out of the fire until a drop on the inside of his wrist is absolutely perfect. Perfect in this case meaning “nearly scalding”; Eliot’s ideal bath is one that risks scorching off a layer of skin. He looks around once more to double check his preparations, then heads back out towards the bed.

The breakfast tray is sitting on the table, plates and bowls empty. Arielle has taken over Eliot’s position sitting up in bed, and Eliot is resting in her arms, knees drawn up so his feet won’t dangle off the end of the bed, head tipped back against her chest as she massages his scalp.

“I’m ready,” Quentin says, rummaging through the trunk at the foot of the bed where they keep their clothes and bed sheets, finding what Arielle had hidden there. He hands Eliot the neatly wrapped bundle. “Now you.”

Eliot’s eyes open and light up, and he reaches forward for his present, untying the twine and removing the plain white muslin wrapping. When he sees the deep green silk underneath, a slow smile spreads over his face. He shakes the robe out, holding it up to see the whole thing.

“ _Quentin_ ,” he says. “You’ve outdone yourself this year.”

Quentin flushes. “I couldn’t have done it without Ari,” he says. “I just had the idea.”

“No, don’t try and give away all the credit,” Arielle says. “I knew the right people to barter with, but you knew exactly what to ask for, and you’re the one who did all the spellwork in trade for it.”

Eliot stands up and slides into the robe, running his hands over the white and gold embroidery on the collar, the smooth, dark silk that falls to his knees. Quentin’s heart picks up the pace quite a bit; it isn’t nearly cold enough yet for Eliot to give in and wear pajamas, so he’s naked under the open robe, and _damn_. Quentin _has_ outdone himself.

Eliot catches him staring and raises an eyebrow. “See anything you like?”

“Forest green’s not a bad color on you,” Quentin says with a raised eyebrow of his own, playing it cool. “Oh, but— hang on one second, I think I see—” He frowns and steps in, arms outstretched like he needs to fix something about the robe.

Eliot isn’t fooled, and when Quentin slides his hands under the robe and reaches around to grab Eliot’s ass, he’s already leaning down to press a kiss to the side of Quentin’s neck. “You are not subtle, and you never will be,” he murmurs.

“Don’t care,” Quentin says, squeezing Eliot’s ass in both hands and kissing along his collarbone. He steps away before things can get too heated — they have all day ahead of them, after all.

Eliot follows him to the bathroom and lets Quentin take the robe, then settles himself into the tub with an audible groan. Even with a ridiculous number of enlargement charms on it, he can’t stretch out all the way, but at least his knees aren’t shoved up under his chin like they had been the first time he tried to take a bath in the un-enchanted tub.

Quentin pulls a stool around so he can sit behind Eliot. Before he scoops the first handful of water over his curls, he leans in to kiss the top of Eliot’s head, inhaling the scent of Harvest-time Eliot: sweat and dust and hay. Time to quite literally wash the stress of the last two weeks away.

The soap smells like rosemary, and it lathers beautifully in Eliot’s dark hair, over his broad shoulders and down the length of his arms. Eliot lounges regally as Quentin scrubs him down, tapping on a limb every once in a while to make him lift it out of the water. Rosemary- and lavender-scented steam rises to the rafters, dissipating in the cool air under the thatched roof.

Eliot hums the lilting melody of a Fillorian folk song to himself, going off-key for a moment as Quentin kneads at a knot in his calf, then picking up the thread of the melody again. Quentin is tempted to sing along, but this is supposed to be _relaxing_ for Eliot, and Quentin’s singing voice is not exactly the right tool for that job.

He returns to his stool to rinse the soap out of Eliot’s hair and pours a careful measure of oil into his hands. The smell of almond joins the lavender and rosemary in the air. He slicks his hands through Eliot’s curls. When Eliot’s hair dries, the shorter pieces will curl into loose ringlets, the longer strands into perfectly tousled waves.

“How many new grays?” Eliot asks, his eyes still closed, his face relaxed as Quentin massages his scalp.

Quentin rolls his eyes. “Only a few dozen,” he jokes back.

“Liar,” Eliot says. He stretches his arms out in front of him, splashing water onto the floor. “I’ll be full on salt-and-pepper by this time next year.”

“You’re thirty-three, El, you’ve got plenty of time.”

“Ugh, don’t _remind_ me.” Eliot grabs Quentin’s hands out of his hair and holds them in both of his, twining their fingers together. “The men in my family go gray fast once we get started. I don’t even remember ever seeing my father’s original hair color.” He kisses the inside of Quentin’s wrist.

It’s strange for Eliot to mention his father, today of all days, when he’s usually trying to put his past as far out of his mind as possible. Quentin doesn’t want to push in either direction, towards talking about it or towards avoiding the subject. So he just leans down to kiss Eliot’s wet hair. “Your hair looks great no matter what color it is. And it’s all clean, now. Do you want to soak more, or get out?”

Eliot squeezes Quentin’s hands. “Soak, just for a bit. Stay here with me?”

“Of course,” Quentin says. “Here-here, or in the tub here?”

“Just here-here.” Eliot crosses his arms over his chest, and with their fingers still intertwined, the motion pulls Quentin forward to hug him around the shoulders. “You’re cozy.”

“ _You’re_ cozy,” Quentin says nonsensically. He can’t help it, sometimes when he gets overwhelmed with happiness his conversational skills regress back to when he was ten. He kisses Eliot’s shoulder.

“Mm,” Eliot says. He’s quiet for a moment, basking in the hot water and Quentin’s embrace. Then he says, “I’m doing it again.”

“Doing what again?”

“Wondering if I’m going to be as awful a parent as my father was.”

Quentin lets his forehead rest on Eliot’s shoulder and hugs him tighter. His sleeves are dipping into the water, slowly soaking his shirt, but he doesn’t care. “No,” he says. “That’s the answer. Just no. There’s no possible way.”

“There’s _always_ a way.”

“Eliot, for one thing, you have both of us.” Quentin kisses Eliot’s jaw, his ear. Usually Eliot’s the one having to try and coax Quentin’s anxiety bullshit into submission, but at least some of the strategies that work there also work when their roles are reversed. Hugs and kisses aren’t a miracle cure, but they take the edge off. “We won’t _let_ you be a bad father. For another, you have— I mean. You have you.” He buries his nose in Eliot’s neck, inhaling rosemary and almond. “You have all the shit you went through to remind you not to repeat all those mistakes.”

“They weren’t mistakes, exactly,” Eliot says, in that too-casual drawl he uses when he’s trying to avoid getting emotionally honest. “He certainly meant to do most of what he did, and the rest of it the alcohol convinced him was a good idea at the time.”

“Even better,” Quentin argues. “They're not pitfalls you have to worry about accidentally tripping into, they were conscious choices you know not to make. You barely drink anymore, so that’s not an issue. You’re not going to intentionally make our kid’s life hell. It’s just not gonna happen.” He squeezes Eliot tight. “We can keep talking about this if you want. My answer’s not going to change, though.”

“No,” Eliot sighs. “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll still think about it. Often. But wallowing isn’t actually how I’d like to be spending my time today.”

“We’ll put a pin in it, then,” Quentin says. He plants one last big wet kiss on Eliot’s cheek, making Eliot snort, and stands to grab the towel and robe. 

Once Eliot’s dried off and looking mouth-wateringly gorgeous in his new robe, they head back to the main room of the house. All evidence of breakfast has vanished, and Arielle is digging into a plate with summer sausage, two kinds of cheese, sliced pear, and fresh-baked flatbread. She smiles at them from around a mouthful of food. 

“It’s not lunchtime yet, I know, but this little one’s hungry,” she says, loading up another piece of flatbread with pear and cheese.

Quentin snags himself a piece of sausage. “I’m not complaining,” he says. He slips an arm around Arielle’s waist and kisses her cheek.

“Nothing wrong with snacks.” Eliot joins them. His arms are long enough to circle them both. “A little decadence is very appropriate, for our last Independence Day with no responsibilities.”

Arielle goes up on her toes to kiss him. Right before their lips meet, she grins wickedly, and says, “Decadence, hm?” And then she’s capturing his mouth in a fierce kiss, tongue teasing along the seam of his lips until Eliot opens to let her in.

Quentin watches them intently, his heartbeat picking up again. Watching his partners make out always makes warmth pool at the base of Quentin’s spine, in his cock — they’re so _hungry_ , fighting for control, hands all over each other. They pour all their feelings for each other into it, gorgeous, fluid, graceful, passionate. They only go beyond second base every once in a while, when Eliot’s in the mood for some pussy and Ari’s in the mood for someone who will be more assertive than Quentin tends to be, but even this is a joy to watch.

And it’s Independence Day, when Eliot takes the time to indulge in all the various combinations of things he enjoys, so chances are Quentin will get to watch them fuck at some point today. Possibly soon. Arielle slides herself out of Quentin’s grasp and rakes her nails up the back of Eliot’s neck, pulling him down into the kiss, tugging on his lower lip with her teeth. Eliot makes a pleased noise and folds her into his arms. Her hands are everywhere on him, sliding under the soft silk of his robe, gripping his waist firmly. Eliot returns the favor by tugging the knot of her wrap skirt undone with a twist of his fingers. Arielle laughs against his cheek as he pulls her forward a step, letting the skirt flutter to the floor.

“So we’ve come that part of the day, have we?” she asks.

“As long as you and the little one are amenable,” Eliot says. “And Quentin. He’s part of my plan as well.”

Quentin swallows hard. “Definitely,” he says, stepping up to meet them, sliding his palms over the backs of Arielle’s bare thighs. She hums happily. “Bed?”

“Bed,” Eliot agrees.

Arielle’s fully naked by the time they make it to the bed, her shawl and blouse discarded on the way. She settles herself in the middle, leaning against the pillows. The sight of her stops Quentin in his tracks like it always does: long arms and legs, rosy-pale skin dusted all over with freckles. Her breasts, always gorgeous, have grown a bit since she got pregnant, her dark pink nipples even more sensitive. Quentin’s eyes are drawn magnetically to the subtle rounding of her belly, still almost invisible under clothes. His breath catches. She’s just— there’s no more perfect woman anywhere. He’d put money on it.

Eliot settles himself between her legs and smooths his huge hands over her bump, kissing it gently. They don’t know, at this point, whose, uh, genetic material went into this kid. They’d done that on purpose, spending a few very memorable days making sure they evened out the odds. Quentin knows Eliot’s as terrified and as exhilarated as he is, every time he looks at Arielle and remembers, _we’re gonna be dads soon_.

“What would you like from us?” Arielle asks Eliot, flipping one half-damp curl away from his face.

“I’d like to go down on you, first of all.” Eliot kisses her belly again, then a little lower, over her patch of red-brown curls. “As long as you’re interested.”

Arielle grins wickedly at him. “I’m always interested in your tongue. Oh—” She gasps in delight and grabs for Eliot’s hair as he slides his tongue through her folds without any preamble. After that first tease, he pulls back, switching to kisses and short licks, getting her warmed up. Quentin had been surprised, initially, at the skill and relish with which Eliot ate pussy — then he’d remembered Margo, and it had all made sense.

Being surprised hadn’t ever stopped him from enjoying the view, though. Eliot’s eyes are dark and playful as he teases Arielle, working her from shocked little gasps to breathy moans before he settles in and starts licking in earnest. Quentin finds himself a seat on the bed before his knees give out on him. He shoves his pants off and gets a hand around his rapidly hardening dick, sighing with relief.

The sound makes Eliot look up, just for a moment. “Ah, excellent,” he says, a little muffled since his mouth is still pressed against Arielle. She shivers at the vibration of his voice. “Kiss her, would you?”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Quentin says, and leans in. You barely even have to ask him once, if he’s honest. He’d happily spend all day every day making out with her and/or Eliot, if it weren’t for pesky things like “needing to eat” and “being on a quest”. Arielle smiles against his mouth, then takes over the kiss as always, grabbing Quentin’s chin in one hand to angle his head just the way she likes it.

Quentin cups Arielle’s breast in his palm, squeezing oh so gently — they’ve been tender lately, sometimes in a good way and sometimes in a too-much way. Arielle makes a pleased noise and sucks on his lower lip, teasing her tongue into his mouth. Quentin shudders. He had to stop stroking himself to do this right, but he’s definitely completely hard, his dick resting untouched against his belly and pressed up against Arielle’s thigh. Arielle reaches for him with her free hand, running confident hands over his thighs, cupping his balls. He gasps into her mouth. Fuck, it’s amazing how fast these two can have him absolutely falling apart. 

Arielle breaks off their kiss for a moment. “Did you have particular plans for Quentin?” she asks Eliot. She’s playing it cool, but it’s clearly a struggle to get the words out clearly, with Eliot’s tongue against her clit and Quentin’s fingers brushing oh so lightly over her nipples, and she makes a small pained noise when Eliot raises his head a bit to answer.

“Just to help make you feel good,” Eliot says, smiling his huge smile. “How’s he doing so far?”

“Excellent,” she says. The hand on his chin slides around to tangle into his hair, and Quentin moans. “You’re doing well yourself.”

“I try,” Eliot says and he lowers his head again, kisses her mound softly before he goes right back to the rhythm he’d established. Arielle’s fingers tighten sharply in Quentin’s hair, and she swallows his whimper in a sloppy kiss, grabbing his hands and drawing them to her breasts.

Time fades away, in the heat of Arielle’s mouth and the gorgeous weight of her tits in his hands and the filthy-wet noises Eliot’s tongue keeps making as he licks her, and Quentin’s a little surprised when Arielle cries out against his lips and fists her hand even tighter in his hair, making his eyes sting with tears as she arches up against Eliot’s mouth, shuddering. She’s got her other hand in Eliot’s hair, holding just as tight, and when she finally releases both of them they’re disheveled in mirror image.

Eliot crawls up onto the bed, hovering over Arielle’s shaking body, and pulls Quentin in for a kiss, licking the taste of Arielle into his mouth. Quentin feels melted, a metaphorical puddle of goo on the bed. The things these two do to him— it’s indescribable.

When Eliot finally releases him, both of their chins wet from messy kisses and Arielle’s juices, Quentin gets his brain functioning just enough to ask, “So, what’s next?”

Alarm bells ring loud in his brain when Eliot’s grin turns even more wicked. “We were going to have a picnic by the river, weren’t we?” he asks. “I think it’s time for that.”

Quentin has a million objections to this plan, all of them stemming from his achingly hard cock, but he swallows them down. This is Eliot’s day, Eliot chooses what they do. And Eliot’s choosing to torture him, apparently. “Sounds perfect,” he says.

It is, in fact, pretty much perfect. The river is low after the heat of the summer — the autumn rains never start until all the grain is in, thanks to Fillory’s magic-guided agricultural season, so they should get underway in the next week or so. Their favorite flat spot along the bank is sun-drenched and warm. Eliot goes off to find Arielle a suitable stump or boulder to sit on, insisting she can’t sit on the ground in her condition and making her roll her eyes heartily. 

Quentin spreads the quilt over the ground and kneels to unpack the picnic basket: bread and cheese and pickles and mustard, chunks of roasted squash, thick slices of ham, apples, a jug of fresh-pressed cider made spill-proof with a quick charm. By the time Eliot returns, guiding a nice big rock carefully along with telekinesis, Quentin’s made basically a Cuban sandwich, just not grilled.

“For me?” Eliot asks, pressing a hand to his chest. “You shouldn’t have.”

This sandwich was definitely meant to be for Quentin himself, but he smiles. “Chef’s tax,” he says, and takes a huge bite before handing it over.

Eliot laughs and kisses him on the cheek, and busies himself making Quentin a sandwich. Then he makes one for Arielle as well. No matter how hard they try to keep him free from worries or responsibilities on this day, it seems like he always manages to find some way to take care of them in return.

Once Arielle’s done eating, she sings for them, a sweeping Fillorian ballad about a swan and a lion and their epic and tragic love affair. Eliot scoots down until he can lay his head in Quentin’s lap. The sun drifts along in the sky, warming them enough that even the fall breeze blowing across the river is pleasant instead of chilly.

Eventually Eliot reaches up and wraps his fingers around the back of Quentin’s neck, draws him down into a kiss. It’s slow, sweet, a little bit of an awkward angle but Quentin’s heart sings with happiness.

“Back to the house?” Quentin offers.

“Not yet,” Eliot says, and that wicked smile is back. Quentin’s erection from before has long since subsided, but the way Eliot trails his fingers down Quentin’s chest makes his breath catch a little. “Horne’s Obscuring Charm?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, and wiggles out from under Eliot’s head to start marking out the corner runes of the spell.

“Am I needed?” Arielle asks Eliot. “Or is this a moment for just you and Quentin?”

“It only involves us, but you should stay if you want.” Eliot pushes himself up, starts packing away the remains of lunch into the basket. “I know you like watching.”

“I know you like _being_ watched,” she shoots back, smirking at him.

Eliot leans over to kiss her, long body stretching across the quilt. “It’s why we make such a good pair.”

The conversation happening in the background doesn’t exactly help Quentin focus on the spell, but he gets it in place eventually, and a shimmering barrier appears in a dome over them, making the surrounding forest just shapes and colors. For some reason it always reminds Quentin of the pixelated effect that appears whenever a character in the Sims takes a shower. But it does the job, keeping any curious eyes off of whatever Eliot’s planning.

As it turns out, what Eliot’s planning is to strip Quentin out of his clothes, lay him out on the blanket under the dappled fall sun, and kiss him absolutely breathless. At first Quentin shivers a little when a breeze blows by, but soon the heat of Eliot’s hand cupped over the nape of his neck, the press of Eliot’s body all down his side, Eliot’s tongue fucking slowly into his mouth, has him feeling hot and tingling all over. He tries to curl into Eliot’s arms, fit their bodies together, but Eliot keeps him flat on his back with one firm palm on his shoulder.

Eliot finishes one kiss and draws back. “Stay here for me,” he whispers, his breath hot across Quentin’s lips. “I just want to make you feel good.”

Quentin shudders and lets himself relax. Eliot smiles, he can feel it against his cheek, and starts kissing his way over every inch of Quentin’s neck, grazing his teeth against his jaw, tasting the hollow of his throat. He continues down, big palm still pressed against Quentin’s shoulder, humming in pleasure at Quentin’s little gasps and moans. Quentin closes his eyes, letting himself feel with every oversensitive nerve. He can just hear Arielle’s quick breathing over the lazy buzz of the river, the soft wet noises of Eliot’s mouth working over his torso.

When Eliot finally presses a kiss to the tip of Quentin’s dick, Quentin is already fully hard and shivering with anticipation. Eliot smiles at the desperate whimper that falls from his lips and doesn’t make him wait any longer. He takes Quentin in to the root, surrounding his cock with heat and wet and suction and driving the breath from Quentin’s lungs. Quentin’s limbs feel heavy, and one hand floats lazily to rest on the crown of Eliot’s head, stroking his curls. Eliot bobs his head steadily. He’s not teasing and he’s not rushing it, he’s just doing exactly what he intended: making Quentin feel _so fucking good_.

Quentin tips his head up so he can watch Eliot’s pink lips slide over his length, his cheeks hollow as he sucks Quentin down. His eyes are closed, long lashes dark against his flushed cheeks. He looks like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing in the world. With all the jokes they’ve made over the years about how Quentin’s true calling in life is sucking dick — and Quentin doesn’t disagree with that, honestly — they sometimes accidentally gloss over how much Eliot loves to get his mouth on Quentin’s cock. He’s fucking amazing at it, using the perfect pace and suction, timing his breath so he can take it in deep, sliding his tongue up the vein on the underside as he rises up again. 

In what feels like no time at all, Quentin’s breathing out a shattered, “El, fuck— close— god—.” Eliot’s eyes flutter open, staring up at him with such raw desire that Quentin’s head spins and his muscles tense and he comes gasping. Eliot sucks him through every shudder, hands splayed across Quentin’s thighs to keep his hips from jerking too much, and when Quentin’s just on the edge of too sensitive he pulls off and swallows, licking his lips like Quentin’s come is a delicious treat.

Quentin shoves himself to a sitting position so he can kiss Eliot, feel the heat of his swollen lips. “You’re amazing,” he says, when he can bear to let Eliot go for a moment. “What can I do for you?”

Eliot laughs. “That can wait until we get back to the house,” he says. “Let me know when your legs are working again.”

The house is a little warm from the banked fire when they return, so they open the shutters and the door to air it out. Arielle’s ready for her afternoon nap, and sprawls over the bed immediately, leaving the boys to unpack the picnic basket as quietly as possible. When they’re done, Eliot grabs his knitting and goes out to lounge on the daybed and add a few more rows to Arielle’s new winter hat while it’s still nice out. Quentin lounges next to him, kind of reading a book but mostly just watching Eliot’s hands as he works, blue and brown strands of yarn sliding easily between his fingers and around his wooden needles as the pattern of stitches takes shape.

Finally Quentin gets properly into his book, but he can tell when the hat is finished without even looking because Eliot’s whole posture changes, his shoulders shifting back and chin coming up as he admires his handiwork. It’s a really nice hat. Quentin can just imagine how the colors will make Arielle’s fiery hair glow in the winter sunlight.

“You’re gonna put a real big pompom on top, right?” he asks, holding his hands to imply a sphere the size of a softball. “So it’ll bop around when she walks?”

Eliot gives him the most withering glare. “You think you’re so cute.”

“I mean, you keep telling me I am. So it’s your fault, really.” Quentin snuggles closer, abandoning his book and tucking himself under Eliot’s arm. “It’s gorgeous, El, she’s going to look great.”

“Thank you,” Eliot says, mollified. He kisses Quentin’s head.

“You can save the big pompoms for the one you’re gonna knit for me.”

“Keep giving me fashion advice, I might start deciding to take it, and neither of us wants that,” Eliot says. “Besides, you’re getting a new hat next year at the earliest. I have yarn all ready for baby blankets, booties, tiny sweaters, we need to hem about a million more cloth diapers. It’ll be a busy winter.”

They cuddle in silence for a while, Quentin trying not to drift off to sleep with Eliot’s heart beating steadily in his ear. It doesn’t work all that well, and he wakes with a little snort when Arielle clambers up behind him and wraps her arm over his waist.

“Well aren’t you two a couple of sleepy sloths?” she says.

“Mm,” Eliot says, also still half-asleep. “What time is it?”

“We have a few hours of daylight left still.” She runs a finger down Eliot’s cheek. “Would you like to keep resting?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Eliot levers himself up on his elbows, displacing Quentin’s head as his chest rises.

“Then it’s your choice what we do next,” Arielle says. “Though, if you’re open to suggestions…”

The sultry undertone in her voice wakes Quentin right up. He looks up, seeing his partners’ grins upside-down but still clearly wicked.

“I could be,” Eliot purrs.

“I can’t help but notice that you’ve gotten both of us off, and haven’t let us do a thing for you yet.”

“You brought me breakfast in bed, you gave me presents, Quentin let me steal his sandwich.” Eliot’s voice is all cultivated innocence. “What more could I possibly ask for?”

They’ve been doing this for years now — celebrating this day, yes, but also being together, joking and flirting and having sex. So Quentin knows when it’s his turn to jump into the banter. He slides his hand up Eliot’s long leg, finds where his soft cock is resting against his leg, and rubs it gently through his pants. “Think about it for a minute. I bet you’ll come up with some ideas,” he says.

Eliot laughs and tilts his hips to give Quentin a better angle. “You might be right,” he says, and kisses Quentin’s temple, his cheek, ducks his head to kiss his jaw. Finally Quentin turns his head so Eliot can kiss him nice and slow, making small noises into his mouth as his cock fills under Quentin’s palm.

A few minutes later they’re all panting, Eliot’s shirt is open, Arielle is biting marks into the side of his neck and Quentin’s got his head under the blankets and is sucking on the head of Eliot’s cock. Before Quentin can really get to work, though, Eliot calls a pause to transition them all inside, where the bed is bigger and there’s less chance of scandalizing any of their neighbors. When the shutters are closed and the floor is littered with discarded clothes, he kisses Arielle hard and directs her gently to the end of the bed before lying down and getting Quentin on all fours on top of him.

“Get him ready for me, would you, darling?” he asks her, and Quentin’s arms give out on him a little, sending him faceplanting into Eliot’s chest as he moans. “Oh, you like that plan?” Eliot asks, amused, helping Quentin get his balance again and cupping his face in both hands.

“You fucking know I do,” Quentin says, already breathless.

“Do the spells for her,” Eliot directs, and Quentin manages to straighten up, standing on his knees to do their usual cleaning charm against his belly and conjure some lube in Arielle’s outstretched palm. Eliot’s eyes rake over him, and Quentin shivers not just with the effects of the spells but with the heat of Eliot’s gaze on his chest, his fingers, his stiff cock.

Quentin gets back down on all fours and kisses Eliot, he can’t help it, he’s _right there_ and he’s smiling and he’s so fucking beautiful. When Arielle’s hand smoothes over the curve of his ass, letting him know her fingers are on their way, Quentin makes a choked noise and loses the thread of the kiss. Eliot chuckles against his mouth.

“What do you want?” Quentin asks. It’s a monumental effort to even get those four words out, with one of Arielle’s fingers circling slick around his hole, her breath ghosting over his spine as she kisses the small of his back.

“I want to kiss you,” Eliot says simply, and Quentin lunges, but Eliot stops him with a finger on his already-parted lips. “When Ari gets to three fingers in you, I want you to move back and suck my dick again, get me ready. And then I want to fuck you until your head spins. Acceptable?”

Quentin twitches his head to the side to free himself of the pesky barrier of Eliot’s finger and gets going on the first step of Eliot’s game plan. Eliot laughs against his tongue, sucks on his bottom lip. Arielle’s finger teases and teases and finally slips in, making Quentin groan into Eliot’s mouth. It’s so fucking good, slim strong hands on his hips and Eliot’s chest hair under his fingers, Arielle’s pleased little hums as Quentin opens up for her, the deep beat of Eliot’s heart.

By the time Arielle presses a kiss to the base of Quentin’s spine and says, “That’s three, loves,” Quentin is fully blissed out, floating on waves of pleasure. He slides back like he’s in a dream, letting his tongue drag all the way down Eliot’s torso until he’s in position to get the fat head of his cock in his mouth and start sucking. Arielle keeps fingering him slowly, getting him nice and relaxed and sensitive. Quentin wants to get fucked, _obviously_ , but that desire is kind of a cloud in the back of his head. He could happily stay right here forever instead, his wife’s fingers buried in his ass and his husband’s dick nudging into the back of his throat and what else could he possibly, _possibly_ need in life?

Eliot’s moans have gone from deep and pleased to breathless and short, though, and Quentin feels long fingers tangle in his hair and tug gently, pulling his head up and off of Eliot’s dick. Eliot’s eyes are dark and hungry, and he grabs Quentin by the upper arms, hauls him forward so he slides off Arielle’s fingers.

“Need to be in you,” Eliot gasps, and Quentin nods frantically, beyond words, and gets himself lined up.

Eliot holds Quentin’s waist, steadying him, as Quentin lets the head of Eliot’s cock press against his sensitive entrance, relaxes deliberately to let him slip inside, allows gravity to pull him down until every inch of Eliot is filling him up. Quentin just stays there, for a moment, head tipped back, breathing hard, letting himself adjust to the delicious stretch of a huge dick in his ass, always even bigger than he remembers it being. 

The bed creaks behind him and Arielle is there, wrapping an arm diagonally across Quentin’s chest, kissing where his shoulder meets his neck, her breasts and stomach pressed hot and soft against his back. Eliot groans and Quentin swears he can _feel_ his dick twitch deep inside him. “Stay up there, hold him while he rides me,” Eliot breathes, and Arielle nods and bites at Quentin’s neck and tightens her arms around him.

Eliot starts moving, rocking up into Quentin, and Quentin rolls his hips instinctively with his motion and slides up off his cock just a bit and sinks back down onto it, groaning at the stretch. He leans back heavily against Arielle, letting her hold him and Eliot fuck into him and it’s just— everything. It’s everything. He looks down at Eliot, who is flushed, one wayward curl stuck flat to his forehead with sweat. He’s looking at Quentin and Arielle with an expression almost like disbelief, studying them intently as Arielle sucks a deep mark into the side of Quentin’s neck and thumbs over his nipple. She’s only got the one arm looped around his chest, and Quentin can feel the other one behind his back, moving quickly and rhythmically between her own legs.

Quentin’s hit that level of overwhelmed arousal where he can barely even remember that he wants to come, much less figure out how to make that happen. Fortunately, Eliot picks up on that, because of course he does. He tightens one hand on Quentin’s waist so he can still fuck up hard into Quentin’s ass, and with his other he strokes Quentin’s aching cock, fast but careful, not too much pressure. Quentin cries out, head falling back onto Arielle’s shoulder again.

“You’re so gone for me,” Eliot murmurs. Quentin’s brain somehow zeroes in on the sound, parses the words, and Quentin manages to nod. “Look at you. Both of you. You’re stunning — you’re so fucking good to me — want you both coming so hard, falling apart for me—” 

Quentin bites his lip hard, feeling heat unspooling in his belly as Eliot’s dick fills him over and over, works his hips harder because Eliot’s gotta come so hard, too, this is _his_ day, he can’t just give them both orgasms and not get off himself. He manages to choke out, “Want you coming in me— fuck me, El, please, do it— fucking come inside me— _god_ — so fucking hard—” 

Eliot’s laugh in response has a desperate edge, and his fingers are maybe going to leave bruises on Quentin’s side for all three of them to admire over the next couple of days. “Getting there, you have me so close, that perfect ass— Ari, how are you?”

Arielle doesn’t answer, her body taut against Quentin’s back, and the next moment she’s yelling against the meat of his shoulder, shaking and bucking behind him.

Eliot grins breathlessly. “I guess that answers that question,” he says, somehow never losing his rhythm on Quentin’s cock or in his ass. “Q—”

“You first,” Quentin insists, although his balls are tight and heavy and Eliot’s cock is sending electric pleasure through every nerve in his body. “Do it, fuck, El, wanna, please I want to feel it—” and he does, as Eliot swears, swears again, fucks up into Quentin hard and fast and then holds him in place impaled on his cock as he throws his head back and cries out, gutteral moans as he spills deep in Quentin’s body. His hand stutters on Quentin’s dick, but it doesn’t matter. With Eliot’s thick cock twitching inside him, both of Arielle’s hands now working his nipples, the uneven, fitful slide of Eliot’s fingers over the head of the cock does the trick and Quentin shoots all across Eliot’s stomach.

As usual, Arielle is the glue that holds them together, keeping Quentin from fully collapsing down onto Eliot, helping it be more of a controlled dive than a faceplant. She slides herself up beside the both of them and kisses Eliot, smoothing his disheveled curls, sucking gently on his lip until his breathing is a little softer, a little more even. “Was that what you wanted it to be?” she asks, when his eyes flutter open again.

“Everything I wanted and more,” Eliot says. Quentin grins, face pressed into Eliot’s shoulder, sticky and sweaty and incredibly satisfied.

“Nap before dinner?” Arielle asks.

“You’re brilliant,” Eliot says. He kisses whatever he can reach of Quentin, which at this angle is mostly his forehead. “Up and off, sweet boy. Let’s clean up.”

They do the bare minimum of cleaning charms and snuggle into bed with Eliot between them, legs tangled and bodies pressed together. Quentin doesn’t settle into sleep right away, though. He watches Arielle’s face relax and her breathing deepen, listens to Eliot’s heartbeat thumping slow and steady. They’re so beautiful, both of them. Most days he can barely believe they’re his.

After dinner they’ll probably go another round or two. Arielle might sing some more, Eliot might join her. Quentin will wash the dishes, refill the kindling box from the woodpile outside, get the oats soaking for tomorrow’s breakfast porridge. The day will wind to an end, and in the morning the daily grind of tiles and cooking and cleaning and life will return. They’ll need to do more patterns than usual, to make up for the days they missed while Harvest was happening. The shutters need another layer of weather-proofing wards before it really gets cold. And the seasons will keep turning, and it’ll be winter, and then spring, and then their lives will inevitably be turned fully upside down when the baby comes. 

Their kid’s birthday is definitely going to take the crown for Quentin’s new favorite day of the year. But the day after Harvest finishes — a day to just enjoy the little family he’s built, the little world they share — is going to stay a close runner-up.


End file.
